


When Desire Wanes, One Waxes (Part Two)

by katrinawritesstuff



Series: Hayffie-Centric AUs [2]
Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Adult Themes, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hayffie, Hurt/Comfort, coarse language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 10:44:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katrinawritesstuff/pseuds/katrinawritesstuff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Effie has a wicked treat for Haymitch on their fifth anniversary. Complications and misery ensue. The second part/alternate ending to the story 'When Desire Wanes, One Waxes.' Strongly advised you read Part One first to avoid any spoilers. Also, you know, so it actually makes sense!</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Desire Wanes, One Waxes (Part Two)

Part Two

_It’s been so long. So very, very long. I need this. I need this. I NEED this._

Effie stared hard into Peeta’s eyes as she glided his hand higher, scooching her ass across the couch and angling her body toward him to bridge the space between them. Then, parting her thighs wider still, she slowly reached for his hand and brought it between them, gradually guiding it to where she needed it most. Before he'd even touched any of her primary erogenous zones she could already feel the heat beginning to build in her lower extremities. She felt it in her lower back, her thighs, her ass, her cunt—a localised fire that had raged out of control until it engulfed her completely, until her entire body was burning. 

In the early days of her relationship with Haymitch, being slowly finger-fucked was a wicked treat, and easily her favourite of their shared pastimes. Haymitch would sit behind her, on the couch or in bed or in some appropriately-sleazy place they weren’t meant to be, and whisper filthy things in her ear while stroking a thick, masculine finger in a come-hither gesture against the underside of Effie’s white cotton panties. The wetness of the fabric against his hand, as well as the innocent choice of underwear, created a surprisingly erotic contrast that seemed to stoke Haymitch’s imagination. “Someone’s been a naughty girl,” he’d murmur against her neck, an insistent finger pushing firmly into the rapidly dampening cotton. “I can tell your cunt likes this, Ms. T....know how?”—his voice would drop to a whisper—“Your panties. Are. _Soaked._ Look at you, moaning and thrashing about on the end of my finger.” A sly smile. “Let’s see if my cock has the same effect...” 

A soft, low moan escaped Effie’s lips. It was a moan of memory, the memory of an old pornographic rendezvous superimposed onto the present moment. It should’ve been a buzz-kill, a devastating déjà vu that suddenly dropped a ton of ethical quandaries into Effie’s awareness like an air raid on an innocent civilian: How could she share something so intimate with someone else, someone who, like her, had no doubt signed his own erotic contract with a Significant Other which expressly forbid any third party interference? How could she do this to Haymitch— _her_ Haymitch, who, though a drunkard and a dope and a great big insensitive lout, could also be warm and funny and refreshingly non-judgemental, as well as being an excellent human blanket to wrap herself in on cold evenings...how could she?

In other less emotional, less hormone-driven circumstances, Effie’s firm sense of morality and innate Capitol dignity may’ve exploded these ethical considerations into her currently vague, dreamy awareness. However, tonight with Peeta had a different tone to it, an emotional urgency whose depth and intensity were like the early days with Haymitch in more ways than one. When Haymitch and Effie’s relationship was in its infancy, Effie would often see the face of her first husband—now deceased—in Haymitch’s own pleasure-contorted countenance when they made love. As Haymitch moaned and thrusted above her, growling roguishly and biting her neck as he came, Effie would see sparks of her former flame in her current lover’s passionate fire. It was perfectly innocent, not something she ever felt guilty about, because her love for one man didn’t in the slightest diminish her love for the other. She wasn’t being unfaithful to Haymitch by vicariously fucking a ghost; nor was she betraying her dear husband’s memory by sharing this very earthly pleasure with someone still in possession of a corporeal self. To Effie, the two men who’d touched her life at the deepest level were like Siamese twins eternally tethered by her love’s umbilicus. 

This moment was like so many before it. Flashing from one man to another. Haymitch’s face, Peeta’s hand. Peeta’s finger, Haymitch’s cock. Haymitch’s eyes, Vulcan’s ass. Vulcan’s smile, Peeta’s horrified, open mouth...

_What...?_

Startled from his trance, his eyes now wide with alarm as he seemed to realise what she was doing, Peeta rapidly drew his hand back as though he’d burned it on a hot stove. Looking at her with a mix of fear and pity and probably also distaste, he muttered diffidently, “I’ve got to go,” then got up, threw on his coat and moved at a brisk clip toward the hall. Effie trailed after him, nearly tripping forward and head-butting a wall as her stocking-shod feet skidded across the uncarpeted linoleum. 

_“Peeta, wait!”_ Effie’s strangled cry fell on deaf ears as the front door slammed reprovingly. She stood there alone in the hall, her face frozen in an expression of bewildered woundedness.

So he had gone home to Katniss and his children. Of course he had. How could she have ever thought he’d do otherwise? How could a middle-aged woman like herself—her face and body ravaged by gravity and what people euphemistically called “laughter lines” but what were really all the tears dammed up over a lifetime—think a young man whose skin was still pink and taut, whose face hadn’t yet become a railroad track of misery, would ever be attracted to a withered, desiccated old sad-sack like her? What a delusional idiot she’d been.

And it was probably also fucking idiotic to think that a Brazilian wax, at her age, could kick-start Haymitch’s hibernating libido, she thought unhappily. She glanced up at her reflection in the hall mirror. The image that stared back at her was not one of a kohl-eyed temptress, wantonly seducing men like a thirties siren of the screen. It was one of a sad old woman, whose tear-streaked mascara was now running down her face in twin rivers of tar. 

Walking in a mummified stupor to her bedroom, once there Effie crouched down at the foot of her dresser, slid open the bottom drawer, and proceeded to partake in her favourite intimacy proxy. 

It was a habit from childhood, her go-to comfort in times of distress or heartache or total, abject misery: Mars Bars. Twinkies. Bags of cotton candy. Whizz Poppers. Fantails. Pixie sticks and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, cookies n’ cream anything. An assortment of high-cal snack treats that filled the void left by sex and love when those things were scarce. It was a furtive, secret shame, like breaking wind in public or getting off to a particularly unusual kink. Haymitch didn’t know about it. She hoped he never would. 

If we are unable to fill ourselves with one thing, another will surely take its place. And so, starved of erotic attention, Effie proceeded to gorge herself on something more readily available. Wild-eyed and drooling, she pushed bite-sized Mars Bars into her mouth one after the other, tore packets of M&M’s savagely open with her teeth and tipped them down her throat. Polished off one maple glazed éclair after another in rapid succession. Finished one jumbo packet of chocolate chip cookies. Then another. Then another. 

Soon, Effie’s face, bloated and thick with a vile effluvia of chocolate and tears and snot, began to take on a sickly greenish tinge. She emitted a loud, long, liquid belch, whose complete disregard for lady-like etiquette would surely have made her old finishing school tutor turn over in her grave. She slumped beside the dresser with her legs outstretched in front of her, a limp, lifeless, flatulent ragdoll. Eventually, shaking uncontrollably, she managed to hoist herself to her feet and began the long death row march to the bathroom. 

Haymitch was still passed out in the tub, anaesthetised by the insouciant indifference of sleep. Effie dropped to her knees in front of the porcelain confessional as the bile of her sins scorched her throat upon its departure. And she’d judged _Haymitch_ for getting drunk and throwing his guts up. _Karma’s a cunt, eh?,_ Haymitch would often say. Still on her knees and vomiting violently into the toilet, Effie took a moment’s reprieve from her retching to regard Haymitch with the first hint of affection she’d felt for him all evening. _Yeah, well, you got one thing right, Sweetheart,_ she thought wryly, as a long brown stream of regurgitated Snickers exploded into the toilet bowl. _Happy fucking anniversary._

**Author's Note:**

> Don’t worry; there’s more chapters after this one. It doesn’t end here!


End file.
